Velvet Regrets
by Kuriyami
Summary: Watched the movie Van Helsing once and wrote a little one-shot story. However, the story is nothing like the movie. Reviews appricated greatly.


Disclaimer: Of course I don't own Van Helsing or Dracula or any other character like that. Just so we know...

I watched the movie Van Helsing, then read some short stories about his wonderful vampire hunter. Well, it drove me to write a little fan fiction of my own. Enjoy!

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The rain.

He had many memories associated with the rain. The day his son died. The afternoon he had finally realized his wife really had gone, leaving behind an empty shell. The day (and long, long night) he had hunted for the immortal.

He watched the water pour down and leave trails on the window. It was coming down in sheets, one after another in the cleansing liquid of nature. Lightning illuminated everything for a few precious seconds, giving light to the dark.

Ah, the dark. His dark.

The night seemed eternal as it swooped down on the sun, covering it with an opaque veil of blues, purples, and deep, deep blacks. This was his dark; he had claimed it many years ago.

He sat back in his chair as the thunder shook the windowpane, merely yelling at the stones of the castle-like house, not able to make them shiver. The chair he was sitting in was made of a comfortable, elegant velvet crimson that softly cushioned the human body. The base was a polished oak, stained a dark brown colour. It creaked lightly as he shifted his weight, but it hardly came close to giving away. Yes, the chair was old and worn, but it was strong.

It reminded him of himself.

He too was old and worn, but stronger than steel. If people were made out of swords, his sword would be made out of diamond. Hard, unbreakable, a complex pattern inside. Yes, it seemed like he was a man with primal, savage needs–to kill those he felt were "evil". To kill in general. Innocent or not.

The things people didn't know.

The things they didn't have the capacity to comprehend.

He couldn't blame them. Supernatural things were beyond thinking's grasp. People didn't like to talk about them, didn't like to even pretend they existed. But they did. And he was the one chosen to dirty his hands to cleanse the people of the world. Yes, it was all beyond thinking's logical grasp. Only instinct truly understood. To act and react.

The rain slowed its pace, but still kept coming strong.

That's how he survived. Got by. On instinct. Logic did have a part as well as reason to his methods, but you cannot defeat things solely on these alone. You must act. And react.

And these actions, as do all things, have consequences.

His son dead. His wife insane. Thunder screamed out, as if knowing his anguish.

And yet, here he was, hardly aged. His features were still strongly chiseled into his face, though worry lines were much deeper than before. His eyes glittered like two amber stones, mystery intertwining in them, as well as danger lurking, flashing in them. His hair had strands of grey in it, blending thoughtfully with the brown, making him look like a doctor...almost. Wait...no...the colour wasn't grey. It was sliver.

Almost as sliver as the thing werewolves feared.

But he had faced it. Like he had faced everything. There were battle scars, yes, but barely visible. It was almost as if his body didn't want to heal them fully, to show what he had been through.

Lightning flared, thunder bellowed. Water kept coming down.

Of course, no one could see the deep mental scarring he had endured. Years, like vampires, can drain you dry.

Yet here we was, still going. Through everything.

Trickles of water poured down. He reached a hand to his forehead, as if a sudden ache had struck him.

But what was living without a purpose? After all, that's what he was doing right now. He had taken a break from fighting. He just couldn't fight, he couldn't cope with it all right now. Not yet.

Oh God, sweet God, the pain.

And that's when the tears came rushing out.

The sky started to rain harder, as if sympathizing with him.

He cried bitter tears of regret. What could he have done differently to stop so many people from dying? Or, more importantly to him, how could he have prevented his family from crumbling? That was the reason he had fought. To protect.

Yet what good was this when he couldn't even protect his family?

Finally, his deeds, seemingly for the good of the world, had caught up with him and destroyed everything but him. It had left him to suffer, to pay for the blood his hands had shed. Even if the blood was tainted and evil.

But he had done it for the good of the world. The good of the world. Were there regrets? Always. Was there suffering? Of course. But God would forgive him, save him, when he finally would move on.

Problem was, he didn't know when that would happen.

The tears, no longer for regret but now for sorrow, dripped onto the arm of his chair, darkening its red covering. Through blurry eyes, he could see what it looked like. After all, how can you forget something you've seen so many times before? The tear drop, sinking into the fabric, looked like blood.

It was then the clock decided to break his thoughts, startling him. It chimed twelve times, and went back to sleep. He sat upright in the chair, his tears left to disappear.

Ah, twelve o' clock. Midnight. His night.

He felt a kind of nostalgic rush when the lightning crashed down again, the thunder resounding, and the moon was barely visible. His bones ached for a slight second, as if something was stirring inside of him, wanting to break free, but the feeling left as soon as it came.

_His_ dark.

The rain had started to come to a close.

And with this reminiscing (for he did so often), there always came the final thought that spoke to him in a Transylvanian accent, belonging to a long-ago enemy that now existed only in that place between sleep and dreams.

"_What would you do differently, oh great hunter? Would you take it all back, my friend? Take it back so that you wouldn't have to feel this pain you do now? Would you choose another side? Be another person?"_

And even now, with a faint yet cocky grin on his face, Abraham Van Helsing knows he would change nothing. The world is a somewhat better place now than it was then, and he helped it, however grotesque the method he went about it was. Nonetheless, it is too late to regret decisions such as that, at least for now. Maybe later, when he is on the verge of Death will he muse this thought, but not now. There is still so much to do, much evil left to purge.

And the rain clouds clear, the pale, blue full moon shining her light upon everything, casting shadows in the midnight.

–end–

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So there you go. Review, please! I'll love you forever. 


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